A passionata
by syndromeblue
Summary: Austria plays the piano with passion, even more after a lingering absence. His reunion with his instrument may seem a little disturbing, but don't worry, he's far from being insane, it is just a superior state of mind only the best musicians can understand. Austria/Piano. Warning with a big C for CRACK.


_I can't believe the first piece of writing I ever share here is this piece of crack, but oh well. I ain't going to apologize. This was a request from my girlfriend_ _who suggested a dirty one-shot in line with the infamous fic with Iceland and his fridge. Lots of musical terms are used so I gladly put their signification at the bottom._

**a note : English is still not my first language and I always write my fics in French first, then translate them. So if you find any spelling or languages mistakes in my writing, it would be kind to tell me so I can improve and make my fics more pleasing to read ! Thank you**

_Hope you enjoy the weirdness._

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**_a passionata : _**played with passion.  
**  
**A storm has been announced for tonight on the weather channel, and it will be destructive because Switzerland has predicted it would be. Everyone knows Switzerland's predictions are rarely wrong when it comes to weather ; he has spent so much time patrolling around his territory in his younger days he has eventually learnt how to recognize and avoid getting watered by a treacherous shower. One can furthermore smell it just by stepping outside and lending an ear : the heaviness of the air is so deafening one can barely hear the wind blowing in the pathways. That is why all the residents of this charming little suburban district in Vienna are staying home at this hour instead of carefully listening like they usually do, when hoping they will catch the sound of the piano that fills up the area every night between nine and nine thirty o'clock.

But tonight, since a storm is coming, no one is willing to listen.

An almost religious silence reigns in the lounge when Austria makes his entrance and takes place on the velvet stool that stands in front of his oldest companion. The lights of the fake candles hanging on the ceiling reflect on its ebony black coating, which is gleaming without a single stain, perfect. He admires for a moment the majestuous curve formed by its tail, so elegantly pulled up, showing explicitly without even a sound that the grand piano is happy to meet up with him as well. He leaves both of his hands going all over the heavy lid protecting the precious keyboard, and pulling it up. It incites him to come and brush past the keyboard after an absence that has been so long. "Important business", he has apologized to the lid before closing it two weeks before, with a feeling that has been not any less than a heartbreak. But now, at this sacred occasion, he can let himself forget about everything except his joy. A joy proudly signed _Bösendorfer_ in golden letters.

A smirk lightens up Austria's face as he slightly bends towards the keys and whispers with an unusual, smooth voice.

"Once, a famous composer told me that the only true link between a virtuoso and his instrument is nothing but his heart. This is why I'm giving mine to you..."

He immediately straightens as if an invisible needle has stung him, and clears up his throat to put back up his voice, the one which sounds like it's especially made for concerts.

"Dear audience, tonight's piece will be the Prelude in D-flat major, Sostenuto, also known as the Raindrop." Here comes the ritual sentence before every recital, even if he only has tonight as his dear audience the sound of the wind in the chimney that is probably not listening to him.

He takes the breath he needs to put his money where his mouth is, and brushes past the immaculate keyboard with his thin fingers centuries of training have made so dynamic he barely needs to train anymore before playing. He strokes them again and again on a length of two octaves, just to gradually get used again to this soft touch that needs so much sensitivity. He doesn't need any music sheets, it's been a long time since he only pulls them out of his drawers when he tries to play while being tired or very drunk - which happen to be pretty rare phenomenons.

When the time comes, he closes his eyelids and starts, with gentleness and reserve, the first part of a Chopin prelude.

The piano answers to his expert touch by a lovely melody in G-flat major. Ah, isn't it _blissed _to meet up with him. It has only been waiting for this, to quiver under the tangible passion of his best performer, only to better cover the exterior racket of the wind and far-off thunder claps. The beginning of the prelude is marked with dynamics, as played moderately loud with a singing tone.

_Moderato cantabile._

The strings seems to loosen as if they were actually singing a relaxing, peaceful tone. Austria can see the reflection on the tail of the little hammers that are gently hitting them, while he feels them becoming more and more flexible and tender under his touch, in harmony with the music he plays.

He punctuates every end of phrase with a pleased sign, in such a refined manner it would have delighted the composer of the prelude himself. Austria remembers he has met him, at a certain time, like he has met many of the greatest virtuosos of the Earth ; Beethoven, Bartok, Grieg, Mozart, and of course Chopin, to whom he owns tonight's performance. He remembers having travelled from really far sometimes to get to know them, for the sole motivation of the passion of music that was the common point between them all, and having worked like a fanatic until his fingers almost twisted to hope he would one day gather all by himself all of their talents. A vain and ambitious hope that has succeeded somehow. But, since this time of competition and learning, talent and taste of hard work has remained by his side, but his musical acquaintances are gone and way too far ; he misses them. Austria is certain that only an accomplished composer like them could understand him. Everyone else would think he's insane without asking themselves more questions.

But himself knows he's far from being insane.

His fingers need to continue swinging just a little more until a familiar and pleasing sensation, tickling his lower abdomen, doesn't wait to add itself to his usual joy of making music.

He immediately breathes a little louder, a little faster, while doing his best trying to avoid a gap in the tempo that would break the serenity illusion Chopin has wanted. This, he cannot allow this, not a mistake like this, it would be a blasphemy as serious as if he'd stroken on Italy's volatile hair strand with Germany watching him. Why such a comparison, he may ask ? The effect it produces on him is ironically the same.

He's far from being insane !

It's just that... every time he meets up with his grand piano after a lingering absence like this one, his pants find themselves becoming a little too tight.

And that's not anormal. It is _passion. _Meaning he feels his music with every part of his mind and body, from the tip of his erect strand to the edge of his manhood. That's entirely normal, just a _superior state of mind_ only the best musicians can feel, not the average everybody.

Of course he has gotten scared, the first time he has felt this eager warmth near his crotch under such circumstances. Who would have not ? But he hasn't cede to fear. He has found the way to surpass it, because he never considered this feeling, not even once, ugly or inappropriate. This piano is the very core of his existence, going beyond every human compagny he could have over the centuries. Would it be weird to like him, to love him, to _lust after_ him, while the relationship that is linking them is so deep, so pure ? He allows himself not to think that way.

So pleasant...

It's been a long time since he has last felt so blooming, loved, and quite simply _happy._ That masterpiece's warmth embraces and thrills him, on a level a little tear pearls on his left eye. He doesn't notice at first that his sighs have become louder and are sometimes giving their way to a light moan, he's being way too taken up by his musical trance. He begs for nothing or nobody to interrupt him, it would be like being ripped of a dream so pleasant he would inevitably leave a part of himself behind when waking up.

_Legato._

There are not only Austria's fingers that are moving when he plays. Passion is making his whole body twist, and he starts literally riding his tool as the music is taking a more intensified turn. He pulls his head back, his face gradually tenser in the beginning of his extasy. He understands very well he won't be able to hold on much longer at this rate; but he hopes he will last until the second part of his prelude, the most beautiful, at least. The way this part finally starts, low, reserved, threatening, is almost like it is taunting him by even more clearly reminding him of the storm on the verge of bursting, both outside the house and inside his pants. He bites his lips trying to distract himself from lowering one of his hands to the part of his body that demands more attention by growing harder.

The keys of the Bösendorfer have never seemed more appealing to him. It is the entire instrument that calls out to him, and the Austrian man's own desire in only amplificating this silent cry louder.

"No... No... Not yet ! I will make it... I shall make it to the end !"

_Più mosso._

Making his head spin.

Calling him, talking to him, a dangerous and arousing tone that warns him, to which Austria answers by a moan slipping through his lips reddened by dint of contracting. The Raindrop is played by his right hand, the singing tone is played by the left. The right softly repeats the same note, while the left one is enough to manage to translate all the intensity the grand piano conveys towards him. This is a message : it wants him, it wants to _feel_ him, so deeply into the wood of his keys, and Austria does, soaking his fingers inside it to reciprocate the ardour of its tone.

_Presto agitato._

And then that's enough.

Austria gets up so brutally his head indeed spins, and he watches his right hand suddenly leaving its raindrop on the keys and furiously unbuttoning his pants, a task made difficult by his fingers having become so shaking and anarchical. Tempo. The tempo is more important than everything else, that is why he doesn't stop, still beats the rhythm with his right foot, without ever dropping the chords with his left hand, while being able to finally get his cock outside and franatically stroking it. A good pianist must be able to part his hands, every one has to gain independance from the other ; and he can't help but feeling proud when he observes how easily he does great at this game. Another good reason to let himself go with the flow.

Another moan escapes from his mouth, louder than the previous ones. He continues pleasing himself with a held back energy nevertheless, for he wants to make his enjoyment as long as the piece will last, to be in perfect harmony with his lover. He then tries to find the natural balance between the rythm of both his hands, fully taking advantage of the sensations his beloved one doesn't stop bringing him.

"Aaaah... Mh... Più mosso... Mosso ! Ah !"

The cry comes out itself, Austria has not prevented it. Could not prevent it. He lifts his right leg along the piano's side in a remarquable fit of flexibility, leaving more free space for the hand that is almost litterally crushing his lenght, his pants now completely down at his feets. He moans, almost on the verge of yelling at each of his movements. But still in rhythm.

_Presto._

"Prestissimo !"

There comes a time where he naturally cannot constrain himself to follow the tempo. He still demands more, higher, faster, _harder_, and so intensely accelerates he pursues his handjob in the duration of a quaver rather than a crotchet. But it doesn't matter ; it is even better that way, he can feel his whole body and mind climbing up the stairway to heaven directly to the seventh, he can virtually see a pianistic orchestra of angels playing the most delicious compositions that all resonate together in the most perfect harmony. It has all started from a prelude in D-flat minor to end in the absolute extasy of a sexual symphony, and it is definitely, irrevocably, the most remarkable piece he has ever been given the chance to play. This is so beautiful... A piano is a being much more able to express an orgasm than a single man is, Austria thinks... A man's touch, scent and breath, would not be enough to let such a violent hurricane unleashing inside him. He does not regret any of his choices, anything he has done... Couldn't have dreamt of a better sexual partner than his _Bösendorfer._

The moment of the piece where he can finally allow himself to free the instrument's passion and play as loud as his orgasm promises to be devastating comes, at last. And he feels delighted, _honoured, _to be able to accompany this scream of musical euphoria by his own.

_A passionata._

Outside the rain starts to fall. The last note, marked with a fermata, lasts during a long time, while the results of his climax silently squirts on the keyboard. Austria has finished his work in a high note moulding the end of the prelude exactly an octave higher, and remains with his mouth opened and his jaw fixed in an expression of pure pleasure while waiting everything to release, the last drop of his semen to spout, and the echo of the pedal to vanish at last. Everything in harmony.

_A passiona... aaah..._

He lets himself falling heavily near the strings, gasping, panting, his glasses crooked and hair dishevelled, but he has quickly made sure his pants are well put back and buttoned up. His head spins, his legs shake, his vision is all blurry, it is painfully hot, his spin is awfully bruised by the angular edge of the piano. Mechanically, his right hand still trembling brushes the strings of which the wonderful echo is still resonating in his ears. He doesn't let appear a single reaction when another pair of hands, warm and strong, firmly grabs him by the waist.

"Come on now, get up. It's time to go to bed."

Hungary lifts him on her shoulders sighing, and leans over to examinate this night's damages. Certainly, the perfect ebony black coating is nastily stained with austrian-made semen, and the meaning is that this accomplished pianist would once again spend the next day meticulously cleaning every inch of it rather than doing more useful tasks for both of their countries.

"... Could you please... not tell anything... to Switzerland..." she hears him mumble. Even if the whole central Europe to the Baltics must have heard, she comforts him. "I know dear, I know. But I think Prussia knows too because that brat's been hiding a camera in the lounge today. Oh, dear, you're quite heavy."

"Ah ? Oh, lord..." Hungary directly takes him upstairs towards his bedroom. "But he has such a great sense of discretion that I did not even take twenty seconds to find it. Nice try. Don't worry, I'll send his glorious plan back to him tomorrow tattered." she says with a smile pushing the door.

"T-tattered ? But, wouldn't you like... to have a record ?"

Hungary has nothing to answer to that and simply puts the inert Austrian on his bed, guessing it is a losing battle to try convincing him to wash himself before he sinks into a slumber he would at least think he deserves it. He falls without objecting from his wife's shoulders on the mattress.

Still in rhythm.

"And, Austria, dear ?" Hungary calls before turning off the lightning as she leaves.

"H-m... _Ja_ ?"

"Excellent performance. Even when you climax your screams are in the right key."

_THE END_

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_** - MUSICAL TERMS AND NOTES -**_

Bösendorfer _is an (of course) Austrian brand of grand piano__s._

Moderato cantabile _moderate and singing._

Legato (= tied together)_means the notes are played smoothly and_ connected.

Più mosso _faster_

Presto agitato _fast and agitated_

Presto _very fast_

Prestissimo_ extremely fast_

**a passionata** _with passion._

_These aren't the actual musical dynamics on the Raindrop prelude but isn't it easy to guess why so many are being put here. ._._

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_You don't need reviews to eat, you don't need hugs to eat either, however both of them are much appreciated. :3_

_See you soon in something more serious ! Hvät !  
_


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